


Shake It Off

by not_sfw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Tucker POV, this isn’t explicitly gay but rest assured it would’ve/will be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_sfw/pseuds/not_sfw
Summary: “Goddamn, dude. This fucking sucks.” He hisses through his teeth as he presses a hand to his sternum, gulping in tight but full breaths. Broken ribs at the very least, collapsed lung and internal bleeding at the most. It felt weird that, at the moment, he didn’t exactly care.(This is an old piece from last year or so that I was intending to use for a s11 rewrite fic but kinda lost inspo. Might return later, we’ll see!)
Kudos: 17





	Shake It Off

**Author's Note:**

> “And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't  
> So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road  
> And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope  
> It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat  
> 'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me.  
> Looking for heaven, for the devil in me.”
> 
> -Shake It Off (Florence & The Machine)

Of course, it was too good to be true.

Tucker gasped, jerking upright; or, as upright as he currently could, with half a piece of metal debris laid across his body. His head spun and he lurched to the side just in time to cough blood up onto the not-so-pristine floor. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, he thanked whatever deity was listening that he was wearing his power armor. It hadn’t stopped the plane from crashing, but Tucker wasn’t dead- something he thought was pretty lucky, considering the number of bodies he could see laying prone from his position on the floor.

Tucker’s eyes darted around the cabin, or what used to be the cabin, taking stock of his surroundings. Anybody unlucky enough to have been out of armor was pretty much done for, and Tucker idly wished that there was any other way to phrase the carnage around him. Sighing, he looked down at his own body.

The debris looked to be a former piece of wall paneling, torn from the side in the rapid descent and crash, and unfortunately flung directly at him. He didn’t recall if that’s what knocked him unconscious or not, but what he did know was that it wasn’t good. Shifting, Tucker winced at the sharp pains in both of his sides. Under any other circumstances, it probably wouldn’t have been advised to get up, but something shouted at Tucker from the back of his head about team and family, and so he took a shallow breath, gripping the edge of the siding with his blood slick gloves, and pushed.

The resulting noise was horrific, the noise of jagged metal grating on jagged metal, but the pain in his chest screamed louder. Still, Tucker pushed until he could wiggle his battered body from underneath the sheet before dropping it, oblivious to the loud crash as it fell to the floor.

“Goddamn, dude. This fucking sucks.” He hisses through his teeth as he presses a hand to his sternum, gulping in tight but full breaths. Broken ribs at the very least, collapsed lung and internal bleeding at the most. It felt weird that, at the moment, he didn’t exactly care. All he wanted right now was to find his team.. Caboose and Wash and Church- though not the real Church. A shadow, or a fragment, or whatever.

It wasn’t the time to focus on it, he decided, and he shakily got to his feet, grabbing his helmet from its spot a short distance away.

Surveying the room from a higher vantage point than ‘laying in a puddle of blood’ proved more horrifying than before. The ship was, in simple terms, completely wrecked. Holes in the hull shone a light on the bodies of the crew and the puddles of mixed blood practically everywhere. It reminded him of a war zone, but this time, there was no enemy.

A noise behind him made Tucker startle and he spun around, ignoring the sharp, stabbing complaints that his body screamed. He had his energy sword out before he could blink, thankful that at least he hadn’t lost that. 

Sarge stood in the doorway to the cabin, hands held up in a clear placating manner. Tucker vaguely noticed that he didn’t have his shotgun with him. That alone was enough to jar him into slotting his sword back onto his armor.

“While I appreciate yer reflexes, for once I come in peace.” Sarge’s gruff voice reaches his ears, sounding for all the world that he had to spit the idea of ‘peace’ out of his mouth. Tucker watched as Sarge reached up, unlatching his helmet. There was a deep cut above his left brow, leaking blood into his eye. Or, where an eye would be. Ridiculously, Tucker noticed how the blood’s red had turned his white beard pink. Or, lightish-red, he supposed. Better to focus on that, than to focus on what was directly, glaringly in front of him. 

“-come with me. He’s asking for you.” Sarge was speaking, and Tucker shook himself. Maybe he was delirious. His brain, slow on the uptake, latched onto the last few words.

“Who is? Where is everybody?” He asked, clearing his throat and oh-so attractively hocking a blood loogie onto the ship floor. Sarge, for what it was worth, didn’t even blink. He just held his helmet under his arm and wiped the blood from his eye socket before turning on his heel and expecting Tucker to follow. Which he does, of course he does. 

Sarge didn’t respond. But Tucker's question was answered as they entered the cockpit and he saw the prone figure lying there. 

“Caboose!” He burst out, startled by the emotion in his voice as he slid on his knees next to the still figure. Caboose was always moving, always talking, always annoying, why was he so still and quiet and-

Caboose blinked up at Tucker, blood matted in his blond puppy curls. His stupid blue eyes were rimmed with tears, which tracked down the blood and dirt on his face.

“Tucker? Why are you crying?” Caboose said, a hand patting around until it clings onto Tucker’s hand. He squeezed three times in quick succession, and Tucker squeezed back. Three times. I’m okay. 

Tucker’s other hand came up to wipe at the tears on his cheeks, before wiping Caboose’s off as well. 

“I’m not crying.” He lied, voice cracking. He looked over Caboose’s body, looking for injuries, for bones pointing out or metal stabbed in, but came back with nothing glaringly obvious.

“He hit his head again. When the ship started going down, he grabbed me an’ brought us here. Smart kid, sometimes. The cockpit is the most reinforced part.” Sarge spoke up, reclasping his helmet over his head and his bloody, horrifically empty eye socket. Tucker tried to smile at the red team commander, but he’s sure it ended up a bloody grimace. 

“Another head injury? Can’t take many more of those, buddy.” He said quietly, turning back to Caboose and carding an abnormally gentle hand through his curls. He let the silence sit for a couple more seconds before releasing Caboose’s hand and ignoring the soft whimper that resulted.

“Where are the others?” He said, turning back once more to Sarge, who shrugged. Tucker couldn’t see through the man's helmet, but he was certain that nonchalant attitude was forced. Tucker exhaled heavily through his nose, casting a look at Caboose how was fighting exhaustion on the cockpit floor. 

“Fine. Watch him, make sure he doesn’t pass out. I’m finding everybody else.” Tucker said, forcing his body to stand despite the pain. He put his helmet on, latching it and relishing in the bright, still working HUD. Sarge gave him a once-over, the silence feeling judgemental before he stepped closer to Caboose.

“I don’t take orders from blues. So what about I stay here an’ watch yer buddy, while you find my team? And the others.” Sarge said, nodding his head in self-satisfaction. Tucker threw his hands up but decided not to press matters anymore. So, with one more look at the red and the blue armored figures in the cockpit, Tucker walked back out into the cabin.

He thanked every deity that the air inside his helmet was purified and filtered because by looking at the wreckage he could practically smell the tang of blood and fear. The Hand of Merope was a big ship, but with the air of quiet and death that had fallen on the atmosphere, it was stifling. 

Tucker stepped around and over discarded bodies of the crew, feeling a sick sense of relief for every body that wasn’t somebody that he knew. 

He tried not to flinch at the distant noises of shifting metal, screeching noises of things being dragged. There’s no enemy, Tucker had to remind himself. Only survivors. Only team. 

“-come on, the one time I’m not being lazy and you decide to just lie there?” Tucker caught the tail end of the conversation and was unable to make out the much quieter response as he sped up and entered the next room; some type of storage area. Grif stood there in his customary armor and Tucker couldn’t help the flood of relief that went through his veins. Where Grif was, Simmons would be.

And so he was. Tucker’s eyes panned down almost comically and he saw Simmons, laying under a pile of rubble and debris. His human arm was stuck out, gripping Grif’s ungloved hand. His robot arm was a few feet away, sparking and crushed.

“Tucker! Thank god, dude. Come help.” Grif spun, eyes lighting up with hope as he continued clutching onto Simmons’ hand. Tucker grimaced under his helmet. Simmons didn’t look good. His eyes were closed and his mechanical eye wasn’t casting it’s usual red glow on the room. 

“Fat-ass, I told you, it’s not gonna work.” Tucker startled as Simmons spoke up, his voice less shrill than usual. Grif frowned at the cyborg, thumb rubbing over the knuckles of his flesh hand. Tucker, out of courtesy, pretended not to see as he stepped closer to the pair. 

“Did you rip his robot arm off?” Tucker asked, incredulous. Grif shrugged, but Simmons responded for him.

“For once, he was really determined.” Tucker snorts at the thought, letting humor override the fear and the situation before he sobered up. There were at least two big pieces of metal stacked on Simmons. It was clear that if the man wasn’t partially metal himself, he wouldn’t have survived. He’s sure that Grif and Simmons had already realized that. 

“Come on, Grif. If we lift together, it should work.” He says, shaking off the ‘what-if’ thoughts and preparing himself for the sharp and burning pains that were sure to come from the rescue. 

Grif reluctantly let go of Simmons’ hand, lining up next to Tucker and gripping the side of what appeared to be a twisted metal bench. They looked at each other, silently counting down before they both lifted up, up, up.

The bench didn’t budge.

“Shit.” Grif wheezed, and Tucker had to agree. If only they had had more hands, then it would be relatively easy to-

“Sup, cockbites.”

Tucker startled, hand flying to his sword before he registered the voice. Two freelancers entered the storage room. Three if you counted the small, glowing figure over one of their shoulders. Idly, Tucker wondered if this was the set-up to a very bad joke. 

“Church?” Tucker questioned, looking from his old teammate, to the freelancer who shared his armor color, to- “Wash!” 

Church shook his little holographic head, dismissive as the small group approached Simmons. 

“As heartwarming as this reunion is, can it wait until we rescue these assholes?” Church said, voice slightly tinny and just as annoying as usual. Tucker pressed down the automatic indignant reaction before turning back to Simmons. He would explain the situation to the freelancers, but if he was being honest, he was relatively certain that they already knew more than Grif and Tucker did.

“If we lift up on all the metal bullshit, someone can drag him out.” Church says as if this is some grand calculation that he alone could make. Tucker is about to snap back, when Simmons, for lack of a better term, creaks. 

“Okay fine, do it, hurry up,” Grif says, a slightly panicked edge to his voice as he moves to stand closer to Simmons’ arm, ready to pull him out. Nobody has any response to that, the moment feeling too sober for sarcasm, and so they all line-up and get ready to lift.

“1, 2... lift!” Carolina calls, ever the leader, and with the combined effort of two former-freelancers and Tucker, the debris lifts enough for Grif to slide Simmons out from underneath. As soon as Simmons is out, they drop the pile. Tucker’s ribs scream at him, and he stifles a pained breath as he palms them through his armor as if it’ll help. Wash looks sideways at him, concerned, but Tucker pretends to be oblivious as they surround Simmons.

He’s practically being cradled by Grif, the sight utterly ridiculous beside the sparking on his robotics and the blood on his flesh leg.

“Get off, fat-ass, I’m fine!” Simmons grouses, trying to push Grif off with his remaining arm but failing to do much more than hurt himself in the process. Grif is about to respond when the ship creaks ominously around him, and Wash swoops in to lift Simmons’ body, power armor and all, off of the floor. Tucker is vaguely impressed, vaguely jealous. If he didn’t have to walk right now, he would be thankful.

“Come on. This ship is practically a powder keg at this point. Where are the others?” Wash asks, shooting a helmeted look through his helmet at Simmons as he moves to complain. Tucker steps up.

“They’re in the cockpit. Caboose hit his head and Sarge lost a fuckin’ eye. I’ll go get them if you can find a way out of this mess.” He says, angling his helmet towards the cockpit. The freelancers give him an odd look, Wash’s attitude tinged with slight panic at the mention of injured teammates.

“Find a way out? Half the ship is gone, Tucker. How did you not notice?” Carolina says, sounding annoyed at Tucker’s lack of intuition or whatever other bullshit the freelancers had. Tucker shrugs. There had been other matters at hand. But instead of pressing it further, the groups turn to abandon ship as Tucker practically runs back to the head of the ship.

“Caboose! Sarge! Come on! We gotta go.” He’s yelling as he throws open the door to the cockpit. Caboose is in a sitting position now, looking slightly more alert (or, as alert as he ever is) and Sarge is sitting next to him, looking rather relaxed for someone missing an eye and surrounded by self-proclaimed ‘enemies’.

“About time, son! We were ‘bouta leave without ya.” Sarge announces, pulling himself up and offering a hand to help Caboose. Tucker rolls his eyes. He knows from personal experience that attempting to drag Caboose’s giant moon ass up was harder than it looked. But Sarge didn’t even budge as Caboose took his hand.

Huh. Impressive.

Together, they made their way to what was indeed a clean cut of half of the ship, and into the open air and light. Tucker winced against the brightness, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the sheer freshness of the outside before the ship behind them screeches loudly and he decides to get the hell out of dodge. 

“Sarge! Tucker! Over here!” He hears a shout, looking over to see Grif waving them over to where the group was all standing or sitting... or laying.

It was a relief to see everybody okay. Or, well, still alive. Though they were all technically one team now, the groups split off into traditional red and blue as they checked each other’s injuries. They were lucky, ridiculously so. But that wasn’t entirely uncommon for the group of simulation space marines.

“-cker. Tucker.” 

Tucker jolted, snapping back to reality and looking into Wash’s face. It was inches away from his helmet, with the Freelancer's helmet ditched a few feet away. Concern clouded his eyes.

“What, dude?” Tucker said, taking a step back. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. He had to stop with that spacing out thing.

“I was asking if you’re okay,” Wash says, still looking slightly incredulous and as if under any other circumstances he would have yelled at Tucker. Tucker felt a flash of rage curdle under his injured ribs, and he snaps.

“I’m fine, man. Stop hovering. You’re not my fuckin' mom.” He snarls, standing taller and ignoring the ache in his chest and head and heart. He ignores the flash of hurt in Wash’s eyes, instead choosing to focus on Caboose or Simmons or Sarge, the ones who were actually hurt and needed help. “Worry about him, okay?” 

Wash says nothing, instead opting to stare for a few more minutes before turning to Carolina and starting a conversation about some freelancer bullshit or whatever. 

And so, everything was fine.

Everything was not fine.

Tucker hissed a breath between his teeth as he shifted in one of the blue team's makeshift beds. He had to be careful, to be quiet, out of fear of waking up any of his teammates, Or worse, Carolina. The teal, aqua, whatever-colored freelancer had been shooting him knowing looks in the few days since the crash, helmet flicking between his ribs to his face as if to say 'I know your secrets'. Well, fuck her. Tucker was perfectly, absolutely, completely and utterly fine.

Or he would be if he could just take a deep breath and calm down. But judging from the sharp, lancing pain whenever he tried to breathe shallowly, that wasn't an option. The others were injured way worse, Tucker reminded himself, images of Caboose's glazed eyes and Simmons' re-amputated limbs sliding behind his eyelids. He could, and would, deal with this on his own.

Tucker froze at the sound of shifting fabric and armor, all thoughts pausing and melting away. All of the sim troopers had worn their armor to bed, making it easy to hear whenever somebody moved or woke up. Compared to Blood Gulch, the crash site was cold. And considering what little supplies they had for warmth, the armor was the best bet. Well, due to that and also, because Wash was a paranoid assho-

Tucker has to choke down a startled scream as said asshole's helmet hovers over his face, looking disapproving even through layers of metal and bullet-proof glass. Unfortunately, where Tucker doesn't scream his ribs do and he whimpers, hand flying to press against his armor as if that'll do anything. And because of his amazing luck, of course Washington notices.

"Is there an issue, Private Tucker?" Wash asks, tone betraying the concern behind the words. Tucker would have lied, again, or snapped at Wash, but his body hurt and he just wanted to sleep without waking up every half-hour to squeeze his eyes shut and drip pained tears on the inside of his visor. 

"Hah, about that... remember that plane crash?" Tucker asked, slowly sitting up with an arm cradling himself. He's sure he looks pathetic, right now, but his patience and care about his reputation seemed to have died alongside the rest of the crew and passengers of the Hand of Merope.

"Yes, Tucker, I remember the plane crash that happened three days ago and almost killed us." Washington deadpans, and honestly, fuck him. Tucker is so close to just walking (limping) off into the jungle at this point. But he takes a deep breath, or as deep a breath as he can take, and brushes it off. 

“I may have hurt myself. Just slightly.” Tucker says hesitantly, fingers pressing lightly into the area the pain was radiating from. “Little bit of a bruise, if anything!” He adds, but Washington looks unconvinced. He raises an eyebrow at Tucker’s first words, and the eyebrow disappears up into his too-long bangs at the added defense. 

“For you to be admitting weakness to me, must be some bruise,” Washington says, a stupid self-satisfied smirk on his lips that Tucker just wants to bite off. He furrows his brow, a retort on the tip of his tongue before he can feel the energy bleed out of him. The lack of retort seems to finally get through to Wash, who is finally looking concerned.

“Alright. Where does it hurt?” The former freelancer says, though with the way his eyes land on Tucker’s ribs, he already has a clue. Tucker slowly withdraws his arm from his midsection, wincing minutely. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel the pain before, but now that it was the center of attention it was getting awfully hard to ignore.

“Here. When the ship went down, some metal bullshit fell on me. I was wearing my armor, but yknow. Shit happens.” He shrugs, gesturing to his ribs. Nothing prepares him for Wash touching them. The freelancer carried a gentleness that wasn’t clear in his usual words or action, but the way he was tracing Tucker’s chest felt like kindness.

But of course, he has to ruin it by pressing down. 

Tucker yelps, hand flying to his mouth to stifle it. His canines bite into his index finger as pained tears spring to his eyes. 

“What the fuck, dude! A little warning??” He whispers fiercely as soon as the pain recedes, but Wash isn’t paying attention. He’s looking at his hand as if he was the one to wound Tucker in the first place. It was misplaced guilt, not to mention a bit too ooey gooey for Tucker’s usual assholery.

“Take off your armor. And the suit.” Wash says, in that no nonsense voice he was always so fond of using. Tucker complies, wincing as he unclips his chestplate and sets it to the side before peeling his exo-suit from his shoulders and down around his waist. He hadn’t necessarily looked at his own wounds fully but from the look on Wash’s face, it wasn’t great.

“I’m going to go get Carolina. She and Church ca-“ 

“No!” Tucker startled himself with the burst of feeling and force of his sudden reply, fingers curling around Wash’s wrist. He wasn’t sure when he grabbed it in the first place. “No Carolina. No Church.” 

“Wh- Why not?” Wash cut himself off, incredulous at Tucker’s refusal. “You have at least two fractured ribs, best case scenario.”

“And what, worst case scenario I’m already dead? I’m fine, dude! Just bandage me up or some shit.” Tucker says, setting his jaw in what he felt confident enough to say was justified stubbornness. Wash looked entirely too conflicted, torn between the two options. Tucker sat, eyes boring into Wash before the former-freelancer sighs heavily, throwing his hands up.

“Fine! Fine. But! If they get worse, I will get Church and have him run the healing unit. Don’t act like I don’t know why you don’t want the help. You have to talk to him eventuall-“

“Okay, okay! Enough with the therapist bullshit. This really hurts.” Tucker whines, but he fingers unfurl from around Wash’s wrist and he allows himself to relax as the soldier starts to run calloused hands over the wound and examine the damage. It’s silence, blessedly so, and Tucker allows himself to close his eyes and ignore the twinges of pain from his torso.

“You really should’ve told me. A wound this deep under scar tissue could cause more issues than a normal injury. What are these?” Washington breaks the silence, pausing from where he was stripping parts of a discarded ship rag for makeshift bandages, to run a finger over one of the twin scars on Tucker’s chest. Tucker just shrugs.

“Surgery.” He says. “Sarge did it.” He adds, figuring that’ll explain why the incision marks were less uniform than usual. Washington just nods and Tucker respects that. “Same with the one on my stomach, but that one was Doc. More sloppy and...”, he doesn’t want to say unwanted, so he settles for, “impromptu.”

Washington doesn’t say anything else, just lets the silence fall over them again, oddly comfortable between the sounds of tearing fabric and Tucker’s minute winces. Tucker couldn’t tell you how much time passes between his sudden wake-up and now, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the company and the help as much as he expected. It’s another few minutes before Wash leans back, inspecting his handiwork.

“There. In the morning, I’ll see if Carolina and I can find some painkillers in the wreckage. But your ribs won’t heal if you keep trying to pretend you’re okay. You’re off of scouting or building or whatever stupid idea Sarge has until you’re cleared by Carolina or I.” Washington says, and Tucker doesn’t have it in him to snap or make a joke over his thankfulness, as he pulls up his exo-suit. The bandages weren’t much, but they kept a soft pressure on his ribs, and Wash had cleaned out the few cuts as well.

Tucker salutes Wash lazily, finding his eyelids heavier than before. Wash watches him for a moment longer before turning away, presumably to his own makeshift bed. Tucker chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“Thanks, Wash.” He finally says, quietly. Wash doesn’t stop, but Tucker can see the little incline of his helmet and knows that he heard it. And when Tucker falls asleep, he dreams of scars and oddly gentle hands.

The only good part about breaking 2 ribs is that Tucker gets to sit to the side, helmet off and sipping from a coconut shell full of rum chata as the rest of his team works to build something passable as a base.

Well, maybe the coconut shell of rum chata is just a figment of his imagination, but watching Grif collapse on the ground after hauling a large piece of scrap metal was probably just as good.

“Put your back into it, Grif! Pretend Simmons is under there!” He yells, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify, and ducking from the rock thrown at him soon after. Grif and Simmons are both giving him twin expressions of red-faced indignation before they look at each other and quickly find anything else to do. 

Simmons was still down an arm, and one of his legs was barely functional. But until Sarge could find a way to construct new ones, he was shit out of luck. Caboose had had a fairly bad concussion, but with the way the blue acted on a daily basis, nobody could see a difference. And Sarge, down an eye, was thoroughly enjoying his makeshift eyepatch. Tucker wasn’t sure if his frequent attempts at a ‘pirate accent’ were really necessary, though. 

The injured, excluding Tucker, still got small, simple jobs. Carolina had sugar coated it by saying that it was because they had healed better, but Tucker could hear the implication underneath loud and clear. If you had told somebody at the beginning, you would be healed too. 

Tucker blinks out of the memory, looking back towards Simmons. The red headed man was plotting the bases on scraps of paper, as Caboose colored over his meticulous notes and drawings. The red didn’t even seem phased, only sighing before handing the large blond another blueprint. Sarge stood nearby, yelling instructions at the remaining able-bodies soldiers. He seemed overjoyed to be able to boss around the freelancers, and Grif. 

Tucker was getting restless.

But every time he even looked like he was going to move, somehow Washington caught wind of it. With one tilt of his helmet, the harsh day sun glinting off of the visor, Tucker could basically read the threat. Stay there or I get Church. 

And don’t get him wrong, of course Tucker wasn’t upset that he had to relax and lounge around instead of, say, do any actual work. But it just felt... weird. To be useless. 

By the time he’s cleared to start doing anything besides sitting around and cleaning his armor, the bases are already constructed... to the normal red and blue standards, that is. They were shitty, made from the half of the ship they landed with, but shitty wasn’t exactly new to the sim troopers. Carolina, on the other hand, seemed appalled.

“You live like this??” She exclaimed, leaning into the blue base with a miniature Church hovering over her shoulder. Tucker shrugs, avoiding looking at his former friend turned holographic-cockbite. 

“You get pretty used to it. It’s a learning curve, but tight spaces aren’t that bad.” Tucker says. Bow chicka bow wow, he thinks to himself, valuing the intactness of his body. He ignores the noise of what he assumes to be a piece of the roof caving in. “Someone will fix that.”

Carolina and Church share a look, and Tucker feels his shoulders automatically tense. That look is familiar. It’s practically trademarked property of Project Freelancer.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Carolina says, and Tucker turns to her with wide eyes that he hopes scream betrayal. She turns, ducking out of the base and wincing as the doorway creaks behind her. 

Church lingers behind, looking oddly uncomfortable for a projection of light and code. The silence between them is stifling, a type of awkwardness that had never weighed them down before now. Tucker is about to speak before Church beats him to the punch.

"I... don’t know who I am.” The holograph speaks with his helmet bobbing along with his words, as if to show he was speaking. “I used to. That much I do know. But now? With so many other memories, other ideas, other people in my head? All I know is that I’m not who I was.” 

Tucker swallows thickly, deeply wanting to be anywhere other than here, with Church, in this haphazard base. But his friend continues on regardless.

“I guess... it feels like everything in that valley, in that base, is a shadow. Objectively, I can remember staring through a sniper scope with you. But I can’t remember... you.” 

Tucker’s fingers fidget. It feels deeply wrong, like he’s being let down gently or like he’s the one who’s done something wrong. If he’s being fully honest, it feels like a breakup, and Tucker isn’t exactly used to being on the pity-end.

“When you look at me, it’s like you can’t decide between hatred and love. And it feels.. wrong,” he pauses, letting the word sit in the stifling silence, “to not tell you. That I don’t know you. I know your dossier, sure, but I don’t know you or the moments we shared. Not any more than I do reading them in your file.”

He stops there, stops the classic ranting that Tucker knows... that Tucker can recognize. It feels like everything is changing, and he can’t think of anything to say that could stop the world from shifting. He’s not sure how long it is that they stand in the creaking shelter like a couple of jackasses, before Church flickers once. He looks towards the door, where Tucker is sure that Carolina is waiting beyond.

Carolina. Someone he apparently actually knew. Someone other than Tucker. 

“...And Tucker?” The AI calls, turning back to face him with the flair he had always possessed for drama. “Call me Epsilon.”  


And the next morning they’re gone.


End file.
